


Lay Me Down

by glorious_spoon



Series: Tumblr/Twitter Prompt Fic [53]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dubious Consent, F/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: He's lost track of how long this has gone on before sense returns to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Tumblr/Twitter Prompt Fic [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1313993
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102





	Lay Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> For a Tumblr prompt that asked for Geralt/Yennefer and angsty sex pollen.
> 
> ....this is now the third sex pollen fic I've written for this fandom; I'm just missing the OT3 take on it.

He’s lost track of how long this has gone on when the fever finally eases. It’s a temporary respite, he knows: his skin is still prickling, oversensitive, his body too hot, but his mind is, however briefly, clear.

“Yenn,” he says. His voice is rough, abraded, as though he’s been swallowing broken glass.

She rolls toward him on the ruined mattress, her dark hair straggling across her face. There’s a flush in her cheeks and a fine sheen of sweat on her skin, but other than that she looks as untouchable as she ever does. He remembers gripping her hips with both hands to pull her down, digging his fingers in deep enough to bruise, but all that’s left are a few red marks that are already fading. Yenn has never allowed anyone to leave her more disheveled than she intends. Not even him; not even now. Maybe especially not now.

“Again?” she says softly, throwing a leg over his thighs to straddle him. Her tone is unexpectedly gentle, but when he reaches up to stroke her hair out of her face, she catches his hand in a firm grip. “Geralt. Do you understand what’s happening?”

“I—” he rasps. “I understand.”

It’s not completely true. His mind is hazy, the memory of how he came to be here, in Yennefer’s tent, on the broad, soft bed that smells like her--that smells like both of them together, a scent he’s tried so hard not to remember over the last several years--the memory is patchy and faded. He thinks he remembers Yenn swearing at him, dragging him naked through the undergrowth of a cold dark wood with unnatural strength, vines of magic wrapping around his body to lift him up into the light--but it’s all just flashes, stripped of most useful context.

Still. He understands well enough what’s happening here. The fire in his blood would be enough for that. That, and the sight of Yenn’s naked body, the smell of sex.

“Good,” she says. Still straddling him, she reaches up to tie her hair loosely out of her face. The momentary flash of gentleness is gone so quickly that he’s not even completely sure he saw it at all; her eyes are hard, her jaw firm. “This doesn’t mean anything. I’m not staying.”

“I understand,” Geralt says again, though the words want to catch in his throat. He feels pinned like this, though he could lift her scant weight easily. It’s not her magic so much as the weight of her gaze and his own regrets. He does understand, entirely too well.

“Good,” Yennefer says, and smiles suddenly. It isn’t a kind smile; it’s too wild for that, too sharp. But it is a smile. “By my estimation, you’ve got another four rounds in you before the potion is out of your system. At least. I’ve never actually seen it tested on a Witcher.”

“Your estimation,” he repeats, though it’s hard to sound steady with her rocking against him like that. His cock, never fully soft to begin with, is thickening against the inside of her thigh, and when she grips it he shudders, all thoughts fleeing his head. A moment later she’s sinking onto him, so wet and slick that he’s buried to the hilt in one smooth stroke. His mind is buried beneath a wash of red, all urgency and heat and mindless animal pleasure, but as she begins to move he almost imagines that he hears her gasping his name.


End file.
